


Bang

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Series: Powder Keg series [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, Dildos, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gags, I personally don't believe he'd go all in on a first run unless he was actually soulless, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Penis In Vagina Sex, Romance, Rope Bondage, Sam's not as DOM as usually written, Sex, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, which he is not in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-29 19:24:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16270763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: Twice now Sam’s had to save you with his magic dick.  Both events were grim… and pretty inspiring, truth be told.  Since then you’ve settled into the intimate side of your relationship enough that Sam believes now might be a good time to explore all that kink again.





	Bang

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Crash](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6159654) and [Boom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8937769)

A tonne of sleep and a tonne of water.  That’s what you needed, and that’s what Sam gave you.  Rest and quiet and gentle cuddles.  It took two days of that and letting your body tighten back to its usual self before you did more than walk to the bathroom.  Another two mornings and you tried for a run, and after that you were back to form.

First things sixth though, you had Sam to thank.  When he found you waiting for him in his room, and had recovered from the monologue of a kiss that greeting him, the only words he got out were, “So, feeling better?” before he got slowly and lovingly thanked to within an inch of his life.

You made love to him, with dedication, with the lamp on, with every second committed to showing him how grateful you were.  He choked on his gasps, brushed your hair back and said, “Wait up,” and stole moments in action so he’d remember you like this.  “I love you,” you said, over and again, in pauses and passion, poured it into his ears and eyes, and felt it tumble out of him, too.  

When the light was finally switched off, Sam wrapped an arm around your waist and held your head, his palm over your ear and turning you so he could press his chin to your jaw and push his lips against your ear.  “I love you, too” he said.  “So much.”

For a week your private time was like that - long, drawn hours in a bubble of focused affection that seared memories and locked bonds.  Hunts were quiet: Just two small ones in three weeks, and Dean took them both, banking the ends with extended stays with enthusiastic company. So towards the end of that, the earnest gazes had started to give way to coy glances, cheeky smiles and playful giggles.  Sam chased you down the corridors and delighted you with magicking condoms from his pockets, and suddenly any surface had potential.

You’re standing at the open pantry today.  There isn’t enough flour, nor quite enough eggs and you’re engineering some hybrid cake idea in your head.

“Hey.”  Sam appears behind you, hand heavy on your hip as he slides up close. “Whatcha up to?”

“Staring at ingredients,” you mutter.  “If I had any brains I’d flip through a recipe book until the feeling’s passed.  What’s up?”  You look up at Sam and he’s casual, relaxed.

“Can I show you something?”

“Sure.”  You get, from his tone, that it’s somewhere else, and nothing to worry about.  But the days are idle so you let him lead you down the hallways to his room for as long as it takes, and the chat between you is incidental.  “Dean’s home tomorrow, yeah?”  

“Maybe today,” Sam confirms.  “He’s outta clothes. We need to shop, too.”  

“Yeah, but it can wait a day,” you shrug.  “So what did you want to show me?”

Sam leads you into his room and stands next to his open drawer.  You did laundry this morning and found his stuff in the dryer so you very kindly put it away.

“This is youuuuur socks and jocks drawer,” you say, as though it’s on the practise exam.

“It is my socks and jocks drawer,” he nods.  “Do you see anything remarkable about my socks and jocks drawer?”

“Nnnno.”  You look at the underwear, the many identical black socks (saves matching them) and the range of briefs and boxers.  “They’re very nice?” you offer.  “They remind me of you?”

“They have their sides?” He raises his eyebrows at you, and you lower yours.

“Seriously? This was worth the trip?”

“Y/N! Look at them!” he laughs, gesturing with a flat hand. “It’s so obvious!  Why did you just dump them in the middle?”

“Uuh, because you’re a grown boy and you’ll cope?” you shrug.  “I dunno.  Maybe I didn’t wanna set the precedent.”  You look at him and jut your chin his way, a slight little move in mock defiance.

Sam half scoffs, deflating with an eye roll. “It’s just, if it’s worth doing….”  He steps behind you, sighing like the logic finishes his point.

“It’s not worth doing.”

“What?”

“Sam, they’re sock and jocks.  When was the last time you needed to get any with your eyes closed?”

“It’s efficient,” he tells you, his voice lowering for the sensible reason, and this time his chest is right against your back, making your head tilt forward.  The bass of him thrums into you as he speaks.  “When we’re in a hurry I can grab a handful either side and know I’ve got enough for a long weekend.”

“Oh.  You have a  _system_.”

“I have a  _rule_  and you broke it.” He speaks crisply and leans down to your ear.  “Sort them properly.”

He has a rule.

It’s a little rule, and easily corrected.

Leaning back a bit so you can stand up straight, his hands take hold of the open drawer, folding over the rim either side of your elbows, apparently to supervise you sorting his underwear.

Slowly, while you think, you collect the things you put there earlier, putting the pants on the right and the socks on the left, one at a time.  Sam didn’t need to bring you here for this, but he did. He’s offering up an opportunity for you to start something, literally putting it in your hands so that you might create slight he can use, or even escalate things more, rather than pretend some bratty mood he has to manage.

Very soon you have one pair of neatly balled socks remaining and you feel Sam’s measured sigh furl down your neck as you consider which side to put them.

In the corner of your vision, over your left shoulder, you can see Sam’s mouth and nose.  He licks his lower lip, watching you think, and when you hold the socks up and pull one from the other, his smile pulls tight, smothered before he can laugh.

You put both socks on the right.

He chest pulses a little, breath managed, and you can hear the way he fights to stay serious when he begins to talk.  “You sure that’s where they belong, Y/N?”

“Dunno.  Don’t really care.”

He leans into you and both your heart and his thump against your ribs.  “Wow,” he says, lips on your hair.  “Defiant, too.  That’s a lot.”

It is a lot, and you start to think better about what’s going on.  Last time, before you were interrupted by Dean and that god awful hunt, Sam was ready to role play your “lessons” through to college, and then he figured out that the ‘play’ part - the pretending and make believe - was something you struggled to get behind.  Or wouldn’t, at the time.  Suddenly, giving Sam a solid reason to punish you seems very real, and quite risky, because although you trust him with everything, he will, without a doubt, follow through on whatever consequence you bring upon yourself - unless you have a good hard think right now about what you think you can handle.  

It occurs to you, too, that breaking a rule is one thing, but defiance might require correction. “Sorry.”  Just to be on the safe side.

“Turn around for me.”  His tone softer.  “Do you know what you wanna do with this?”

“With me being ‘naughty’?”

He nods patiently.  You take a breath, your gaze looking through his chest, sometimes over at the bed, as you tell him what you think right now.  “Nothing over your knee, no spanking.”  Sam’s chest tightens at the image that inspires, and he nods again.  “Don’t be mean, with your words, or whatever.”

“No, I don’t wanna do that.”  He’s himself, thinking and open, stretching his brain for anything that should be covered right now. “You wanna use special names at all?”

You ponder and after a while you scrunch your nose and shake your head.  “I don’t really have a thing for names.”

“Might help with separating things,” he suggests.  “I could- I dunno, Babygirl might work.”

You scowl. “I’m not a baby, or a girl.”

“Yeah, you’re not my sock and jock maid, either,” he laughs, “but you are my baby.  And my girl.”  He shrugs, leaving the offer there.

You try not to roll your eyes, but he has a point.  “You got a name you want me to use?”

His face looks  _Not really_ , but he still says, “There’s really only Sam, or Sir.”

“Or Daddy,” you add, as a matter of fact. Both of you frown at that.  “Don’t worry.  I think you’ll know when I mean it a particular way.”

Sam keeps thinking as he talks.  “Alright, we’ll see how it feels.”

“Do you want me to be a little shit?”

Sam looks at you and the corner of his mouth pulls up a little, a full smile breaking as he flexes his fingers over the drawer rim again.  “Mmmmaybe I don’t wanna set the precedent,” he smirks. “But I’m gonna need something to push against.”

You smile back, twisting cheekily when you say, “Oorrrr maybe you just wanna watch the girl learn.”

Sam smirks, leaning close.  “Okay, let’s see how we go. Yeah?”

“Yeah.”  You speak against his lips, happy and thankful. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” he says and kisses you full and deep.

The sound of wood slamming shut makes you gasp and jump, and you bump into the drawers behind you. 

Sam leans against them, his arms boxing you in, and he looks at you in a way that makes the room fall away.

You swallow, and watch, and wait.

“It’s so unlike you, Y/N,” Sam purrs, “to be sloppy.”

It’s good, these words.  You weren’t sloppy - in fact the idea of being sloppy makes you want to argue the point - but he’s using hyperbole, inflating the crime, to show it’s fake.

“What else have you been sloppy with, I wonder.”  He shifts his feet back and bends so his eye level meets yours, arms still braced.

“Nothing,” you answer.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure you’d notice.”  You lower your eyes for a few seconds, then check to see the effect.

He likes it.  “Let’s test that,” he says.  “Take off your pants.”

Pushing down your track pants is easy enough.  You kick them aside before hooking your thumb into your panties- “Leave them,” he says.  Then he comes in close, quickly enough to make you knock back into the drawers again, and he smears his cheek over yours to get his lips by your ear. “You once told me that you liked to watch me struggle.  You faked needing the lesson just to see it.”  He lets his lips drag on the shell, pushing your head sideways as he talks.  “I would call it a waste of my time,” he warns and wraps his hands around your upper arms, pulling you towards him so that your heels leave the floor.  “But I’m sure you learned _something_  that day.”

He holds you there for a moment, peeks sideways to see you close your eyes and take a breath at the feeling of being handled by him.  It’s a full flashback to that last time he showed you his strength like this, and you had no idea how thirsty you were for his muscle to move you about.  

Sam lowers you back to stand on your own, and steps behind you.  He runs his palms up and down your waist, brushes your hair back, and feels your shapes in his hands for a few seconds, before bringing them back to your shoulders.  “Pull back the covers.” He steps aside to wait for you to do as you’re told.  “Show me what you learned, Babygirl.”

You… you’ll be okay with that name.  Yeah.

And what you find makes your ears throb fat.  There’s a rope.  Most of it is under the mattress, the ends laying coiled where your knees would normally be.

There’s a scarf, too, twisted narrow, plus a shorter rope.  Your mind dashes through the possible purpose of each, imagining how the rails of the bedhead might be involved, and Sam stands there, waiting for your response.

At some point you stand taller and look towards where he stands on your left, as if to await instruction, and Sam understands.  “Take off your panties and get on the bed,” he instructs, “and on your left thigh, show me the correct knot for this job.”

For a moment you glance up at him.   _Pop quiz??_ says your brow.  Sam allows a few dimples while his eyebrows say  _Hop to it_.

You kneel onto the bed and arrange yourself, looking back at the pillow, shifting down to find your place. It’s a good quality rope, smooth and a comfortable thickness.  You wrap it around your leg, right above the knee, and secure it with a knot that won’t slip tight or accidentally loosen, not unless the tail is pulled.  When you’re done you look up at Sam, and he kneels onto the bed, tugging the length to check.

“Good.  Just what I would’ve done,” he murmurs.  Then he takes your other leg, places it next to the other and says, “Other one, too. Same knot, and keep the length taut.”

You expected he’d make the rope keep your knees apart– they’re side by side –but Sam wouldn’t be this prepared and not have thought of that, so you follow instruction and trust his plan. Your hands are calm, your fingers deft and practised, but your heart is jogging, thumping again at what it all could mean.  Moments later, the rope securely cuffs your thighs and stretches across the bed so straightly you’d think you were strapped flat.

“Good girl.  Lie down.”

Sam gets up and opens the sock drawer again.  “So, I have this thing.” He turns around and he’s holding a great flipping dildo in his hand.  You figure it’s a dildo anyway, [if not some modern art](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fcarasutra.com%2Freview%2Fnjoy-eleven-dildo-review-by-cara-sutra%2F&t=MGJiZGRlMDgxNmNiYTFmOTI3YTNkMWEzMTgyYWM0N2RkOGNlMjU2NixCM0V0NnlaNw%3D%3D&b=t%3AIXa2i0YjFeYnq2qFbqpJqg&p=https%3A%2F%2Flittlegreenplasticsoldier.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F178947075787%2Fbang&m=1).

Your eyebrows go up beyond Surprised and into Holy Crap.

“I have it from before I even met you. And I’ve been waiting to- wait.  I don’t have to explain myself.”

“Because you’re in charge.”

“Yes.  I’m in charge.  But is this okay?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Have a look at it.”  Sam hands it over and you sit up to feel it’s surprising weight.  It must be over 2 pounds of solid steel, and it seems much larger in your hands.  Both ends have a bulbous shape; the larger one is probably 2” across and looks way outta your league tonight.  But the smaller end, with three generous ridges inside a gently s-shaped curve, that looks possible.

He asks again, “Okay?”

“Okay.” You hand it back and lay back down.  “Just the smaller end.  I’ll say if it’s not okay.”

So, with muted enthusiasm, Sam sits by your legs, rubbing his hand up and down the farther thigh to encourage it wide.  He takes the lube from the bedside drawer, deftly applies some to a finger and swipes it up the crease of your opening, enough to coat but nothing like foreplay.

“Give me your wrists.”  Sam’s tone is suddenly formal.  “I was going to make you not touch anything but I don’t want to test that, so-” With the shorter rope, he’s quickly bound a wrist, then the other, the leans up to attach them to the bedhead.  

You watch him stretch over you, focused on the rope while you gaze at his fine jaw and long neck while he gets you ready to do things to you. While he makes you long and fixed, so he can do things to you…  It’s as though the length of skin on skin, from calves to pussy, is so wired and alert it reaches all the way up into your body, up to your armpits.

When he’s done you look up to see and it’s neat and secure, with comforting symmetry, and your lax fingers look delicate in their place.  With his lips on your forehead he murmurs  “You feel naughty, yet?”

You hum back, smiling, and wriggle a bit to feel where everything is.

When he settles back to his place, you can see how wound up he is.  Tight chested, measured words, he watches his hands on your skin, knuckles slipping up and down your waist.  “So, this is your punishment.  Well, the first part anyway.”

You swallow, and nod, and feel like you might be able to tolerate a whole lotta something, or several somethings.

Sam takes the dildo, puts it to the dint of your core and pushes it in, just enough for the full width of it to disappear.  The cold makes you to suck a gasp into your nose, but it’s so smooth that the temperature is the only sign that it’s there.  With his gaze on your face, he pushes further, slowly, steadily, watching for any signs to retreat.  He guides it into you until the ridges disappear, and then lets the larger end rest on the bed, and the head of it pushes directly onto your g-spot, cool and dumb, and so unusually pleasurable you nearly do a double-take.  Its dead weight pulls on your softness and you shift to detect where it really is.  Thankfully, the mattress has enough cushion to meet the thing part way and take some of the weight.

Once you’ve made eye contact, and he’s seen your breathing settle, he takes the long scarf and wraps it around your legs, above the ropes, cinching them together with a tight knot.  It accentuates the thickness that reaches inside you, it’s hardness leaning upwards, and how much it doesn’t really do anything except press down on your perineum and curve up to your nerves.

Sam pushes a long breath out his nose, takes in where the lines of your body meet, knowing what he’s put there, inside you, to tease you, and how you’ll be right here when he comes back.  He has no idea what it’ll feel like, but he’s driven by a giddy curiosity so much that he doesn’t mind if nothing happens.  He doesn’t care if he returns and you’re shrugging with boredom.  He just wants to see.  He wants to learn about you.  He’s going to do everything he’s ever dreamed of.

You lay there watching him push your top up and unclasp the front hook of your bra, pushing the cups aside.  He’s done this recently, taken the time to lovingly look at you, and that adoration takes on a tang of pride.  Your his, and you love it.  He likes looking at you, likes having you, and he’s stealing time to savour you.  A fleeting image of doing this to him, too, comes to mind.

“Kiss me, Sam.”  You twist your arms in the ropes, meaning to feign desperation but you’re hardly lying.  Your voice isn’t even working right.  It’s meant to be a gift, something for him to deny while you play.  “I want you.  Need your hands.”

Clever Sam sees it straight away, his smirk slipping grateful before he shows you, with a minute but stern frown, how much your wanton pleading cannot move him.  And dammit, it’s not nothing.  All you can feel is the air between you.

He places a fingertip on one of your nipples, shifts the tip in a lazy circle that’s all of a tenth of what he’s ever done, indifferent to the way you reach your chest for it.  He does the same to the other side, watching intently to see you now smother your reaction.  Then he drags his touch down your body, a sure graze right down to the crease of your pussy.  

Leaning down to whisper the words against your forehead, he says, “You wait here.”  Just the slightest of pressure has him slipping between the lips, and he threads his thumb in, too, so he can take a gentle, specific, hold of the bud.  “This is mine tonight, yes?”

He may as well be made of electricity. “Hu- Yes.  Yes, Sam.”

He rolls it, making you twitch and gasp, and every binding lets you know exactly where you are.  “Whose?”

“Yours, Sam.”  You love it, you love it, youloveityouloveityouloveit and, as though he can read your mind, he pulls, by millimeters, moves it about to lead the tension around your clit, watching you suck air and feel the dildo lean up into your g-spot.  “Oh! God! Sam!”

“You wait here.”  He lets go, presses it down with a fingertip as if to tuck it back in, and pecks you on the forehead.  “I’ll be back soon.”

“Hmm.”

Sam pauses in the doorway, checking again.  “Okay?”

“Yeah.  How long?” You can feel your floor muscles starting to respond with a blind sort of awareness.

Sam smirks, as if you’re overreacting.  “Nothin’ you can’t handle.”

“Yeah.”  You smile back, harder than your sheepish nerves suggest.  And you will, you’ll be fine.  You’ve been through worse.  And more.

He disappears and you’re left in his room, just you with the ceiling looking down on you, long and bared on his bed.  

You’re comfortable, generally, even where you’re tied around the knees.  But the dildo is starting to make itself really known.  It’s now the same temperature as you, and the weight of your legs pushes down on the length you haven’t taken, further nudging the head up inside.  That’s not something you can really change, either, not with the first rope holding you so close to the mattress.  Tensing your floor muscles gives you more of an idea of where the dildo is, and you kind of like the way it doesn’t yield.  There’s no bend, no softness, just heavy, indifferent, pressure.  And as the seconds tick by you can feel your blood race around the feeling, as though your nerves are panicking under a ball that’ll come down who knows where.  But it stays there, suspended.  After a while you think maybe your pussy’s starting to suck on it, and the damned thing does not care one iota.

After a long while, you try rocking your hips up and down, feeling around for where it rubs, but it’s too smooth for friction.  For some time now you’ve had every whim fulfilled with Sam.  The privacy and time has allowed both of you to be on tap for the other, nothing withheld, days themed with generosity.  Being denied is a recently forgotten feeling, and the need to sulk, or tantrum, or break the system to damn well get what you want, it’s right there.

Instead, you accept it and take the meanness, let the buzz radiating from your pelvis steadily resonate louder and louder.  You set your jaw to own this show for the long run.

Sam slips inside the door with ready focus.  His mind’s been winding him up, too, and he has to adjust his jeans again to comfortably sit on the bed.  His gaze slides from wrists to knees and he looks at you carefully, at the rosy hue in your cheeks, letting himself take a long snapshot of the peek of steel glinting at the apex of your body.  He swallows at the way you pulse down there, minute movements that give away the tension.

The longer he looks, the more you wonder if he knew what that would do to you. It’s one thing to get naked, be strung up and put in place while you’re with someone.  All that intimacy and the mood of the moment, it carries on.  But he’s been and gone and come back to you here, still, exposed… There’s no hiding how you look right now.  You have to take that too.

“What’s it like?” he asks.

“Um.  You know when… someone would point between your eyebrows, just, nearly touching you?”

“Yeah.”

“Like that.  Steady.  Kind of… uh, pressed pleasure.”  You draw in a deep breath to remind yourself that you’re relaxed, and watch Sam think.

“I’ll be back again.”

Quite quickly, he stands to go, already at the door when you’re saying “Sam! Sam! Wait, Sam, wait- What if- just-”

“What?” he asks calmly, amused.  “What did you want?”

You’re both surprised as how needy you suddenly are. What happened to that tenacity? That long term grit?   “Well, ah. Ah-Iiii thought- I thought you could fuck me?” This is as polite as you can manage, in a state as needful as this.

“I will,” he smiles.  “Of course I will.  But that’s not what’s next. Look-” Sam talks in a kind of side-bar tone.  “-drawing things out is fun, right?”

“Mm-hm?” you squeak.

“Well, I gotta make you really want it.” He’s distracted a moment by your groin flexing every other second, as though your ass is being pulled into the bed. It’s barely enough to shift the pressure inside yet does absolutely nothing to alleviate it.  It’s just something that’s like what you want.  “It’s not punishment if you get everything you want straight away.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, focusing back on the ceiling.  “I guess.”

“You’ll be fine.  You can do this.”

“Yeah.  Okay.”

Something like 5 minutes later, Sam returns to find you blatantly cranking your knees upwards, thighs clenched so that the fat of them can nudge your swollen lips and lean on that goddamned dildo from purgatory.  The pressure has become sublime, as though simply stretching the flesh makes it bloom, and any discomfort has become peripheral.  You’ve pulled your arms long so you can shift your hips down, and managed to keep your mouth shut while breathing steadily and hard.

“Stop,” he demands, standing by the bed. He undoes the scarf around your knees and drops it beside you.  “Open your legs.”  

“Yes, Sam.”  At this point, even your ears are horny, and every word is porn.  

You open for him, show yourself to him, knowing your thighs must glisten, wondering if there’s a wet patch framing the steel that’s reaching into your body.  You’ve a slight tremble in your legs, skin humming from knees to belly button, inside and out, and the gentle rock your hips persists.

“Hold yourself still.”  Sam’s looking for some sort of obedience, you can tell, but he’s being patient.

You hum a little, unable to help that either, and stop moving, trying to do as he asks.  But holding still is work and after a few seconds it’s easier to just let your knees fall slack and breathe deep.

Sam kneels onto the bed and positions himself between your legs, getting within arm’s reach.  It occurs to you that he’s still wearing all his clothes, and while a quick glance confirms there’s a condom nearby, you’re wondering when exactly that fuck is coming.

“Hold.   _Still_ ,” he says.  

You look at his dark gaze and wonder if you will.

He reaches with both hands, looking intently at your flushed pussy, how the lips peel apart, all their rosiness revealed, and he takes one in a gentle pinch between his thumb and the first finger’s knuckle.  

Watching you, he threads both thumbs between them, holding just the larger labia to slowly massage the thickness.  You close your eyes, bite your lips, and make new wrinkles between your eyebrows.  

Sam drags pressure inside the folds, lets his thumb knuckles drag down beside your clit, and tries out different shapes to see what feels good.

You’ve no idea how it looks, except maybe when he pulls, so gently and steadily, moving the hidden parts of your clitoris around.  He leads the flesh up and down, and outwards, too, drawing on your core, making you sigh and gasp, and finally he lays both fat lips back together, clenching them between his thumb and first finger so that your clit is clamped inside, and rolls a fat pinch in slow, surging pressure.

“Yes, fuck, Sam.  That’s amazing.  Jesus, that’s amazing.”  You so want him to move what’s inside, but you’re sure that demanding anything, even requesting it politely, will get you zero luck, so you’re depending on telepathy, earnest compliments, and screaming your heart’s desire with your mind.

Maybe it works, too: That hold presses down, knuckles to the bone, keeping you still, and you feel the dildo move.  Back and forth you feel it slide, and you try to buck into it, but he has you with a full, controlling grip on your pussy’s lips.  

“Aaaaah! Sam! Please, that.  More, please.”

Instead, he removes the dildo, a muted smugness on his face when you pop your eyes open.  “No! Sam!  Please!”  You press your legs together and writhe in annoyance.  

“Keep your legs  _open_.”  His tone shows he’s having to repeat himself.

“Uh, yeah.  But please fuck me.”

“Are you cursed?”

You pop your head up, wincing at having to frikken converse right now.  “What?”

“Are you cursed? Are you about to die?”

“Uhk, maybe? Are you trying to kill me?  _OH!”_

He’s hit you, let your pussy go to deliver a little three-fingered tap on your core.  Sam leans on his fist so he can hover over your body, his flannel shirt brushing on your tummy.  His form blocks out the light and you drink in the image of him ruddy cheeked and determined over you.  “Did that hurt?”

“Not really,” you simper, shifting inside the frame of your bound arms.

Just as you look down, following the line of his arm, the rolled cuff, the ready tendons and flat hand that’s facing your bared flesh, he does it again, higher this time, knocking your clit.  

You tense for it, bang your legs into his when they try to close, and you do shut your eyes but when he asks again, “Did that hurt?” you can answer truthfully, “No.”  Even though it makes you puff.

“Okay,” he says.  “Do as you’re told.”

“Mmm.”  You bite your lips together and plead with your eyes.

Sam smiles, with love this time, a deep gratitude and warmth, and the bastard only kisses you on the chest.

“Son of a bitch, Sam,” you grumble, you teeth almost chattering.  “Can’t kiss me on the lips?”

“Right, that’s it.”

“What?”

“I have no choice!”  He sounds like he’s being silly but he’s taken the scarf again, pulled it taut and pressed it to your lips.  “This, too.”

“Oohwwwwhy?” You whine, but truthfully, it takes a lot of the pressure off.  You lift your head so he can wrap it around.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like it,” he whispers, pressing his temple to yours, and you roll your head into the contact, so wanting more, knowing he won’t give it, yet.  “Y’okay?”

“Hmm,” you nod.

“Alright then.  Lips it is.”  He’s enjoying himself far too much.  “Keep those legs open, Babygirl.”

But it’s near impossible.  He shuffles down and settles his elbows between your thighs, dragging long fingers over your skin where the indent of elastic has long since faded.

Again he takes control of your pussy, spreading it open with a sure hold, and this time you feel the warmth of his breath.  Immediately, a wet pressure circles your clit, and you groan into the gag, encouraging him with the way you roll down for it, hugging him with your feet.

“Open, Y/N.  I don’t wanna fight your thighs while I do this.”

“Mmm,” you agree and try to make your knees relax.

But he starts licking straight up, over and over, a bossy, pointy lick that flicks off your clit and pulls on your flesh, and after half a dozen or so of that, you’re starting to clench again, pulsing roughly with each rub.

“I told you-” You’re woken by another smack, gasping and groaning for more of anything that hard, and he’s disappeared off the bed.  He reaches under for something and when he finds it, he kneels by the end of the bed, grunting as he lifts a corner.  The ropes holding your legs tug harshly, spreading your thighs wider than is comfortable, then the bed thumps back to the ground and the stretch is relieved.

You’re stuck, knees tugged down, slightly turned out, and splayed open against the sheets.

Sam stands tall and looks at you like this, you with your chest heaving, pussy clenching on nothing and absolutely no choice about what he can help himself to.

“Y’alright?”  He walks his knees back onto the bed, broad hand sliding up the inside of your thigh.  His colour has changed, or maybe it’s his jaw and the way it’s set.  He’s just a little darker somehow.

You nod, wishing you could have everything all at once.  All of him, fucking all of you.

“Right then.  Lips.  Try not to come.”  He goes back to where he was, but his steady pace is lost, and his hunger demands more, sooner.  He holds you open again, not that there’s much need now, and licks you up and down a few times, but quickly he’s sucking, pulling, flicking, listening to you yelp and squeal behind the gag.  You’ve lost all regard for whatever noises you’re making.  You’ve no concern for how gracious or dignified you could be; this is torture.  Wonderful, demanding, relentless torture.

“You want me to fuck you?”

“Mmm!”

“How’s this?”  Sam takes the dildo and rests the fatter end on your opening, nudges it against you so you can feel the weight, feel it push against you enough to touch the different skin inside, but it’s merely heavy, not deep, and you’re not sure how a rigid thickness like that compares to an organic thickness like Sam’s.  Maybe it’s too thick to fit anyway.

Sam goes back to sucking your clit, letting his chin nudge the steel against you. It’s like what you want and you kick the bed with a heel at the tease of it.

“You want it?  Want me to try it?”

“Nn-nn!” You shake your head, hearing him huff a short chuckle, and groan at him turning the damned thing so it’s shape changes where it presses.

“Okay, this then.”  Sam turns the dildo around and slides it into you again, pumping it two or three times, almost losing his focus when you cry into the gag and fold up for it.  Quickly he’s pulled it free and pushed two fingers into you, wanting it all for himself, curling them up towards his own tongue and Sam closes his eyes because that guttural sob, when your gut muscles curl you up and you shudder under him and inhale, that’s you running to the brink.

Surely he meant to wait till now, when he’s doing all this? He strokes and sucks, strokes each pump and flicks inside and out, fiddling and strumming, right up until he sees you gasp so deeply you’ll surely pass out.

Then he pulls out, clamps your pussy’s lips again, and presses the heel of his palm to your weeping core.

“Aaaah!  Aaa-ha-ha!” The throb in your ears seems to come from between your legs, pushing blood and rushing sensation, but it’s held, smothered in Sam’s hands so cruelly, your chin trembles and you think tears might’ve escaped.

You can hear him puffing, feel him hold you so still, and you’re not even able to word your pleads or protests.  He stays there so long that you understand he wants you to wind down, and when you stop moaning, and you can swallow some moisture into your mouth, he lets go and cups your mound, patiently waiting for you to resettle.

There’s no way you’re getting back to square one.  You feel like your gut’s sucked up into your ribs, and your groin buzzes white noise.

“So good, Y/N.”

“Hmm.”

“So good, baby.  You’re doin’ so good.” Sam climbs off the bed and undresses, whipping fabric off his body like you need saving from the rip.  You watch from where you are, filling your mind with memories of contact and warmth, though whether it makes things better or worse is hard to tell.  None of it is quite as relieving as the sight of him rolling a condom onto his bobbing cock.

As he stands beside the bed, he leans down to rub warm palms over your waist and into the aching tendons kept long by the ropes, sure fingers and thumbs working circles up the inside of your thighs and around your pelvis and hips.  It only serves to light everything up again.

Sam kneels beside the bed once more and you feel it quickly tilt and thud and your knees suddenly fall inwards.  It’s all too jellied for you to bring them together just yet, but then Sam is between them again, smoothing the skin so kindly.  All you can do is dumbly slide them over his forearms, sighing for him to do something.

“Just wanna try this,” he murmurs.  With one hand sliding under your hips, he pulls a pillow free and pushes it beneath you, tilting your ass up and recreating some spread in your legs thanks to those few inches of height.  He lets his hand drift up to your pussy again, teasing a soft finger into you, doing nothing more than keeping warm, just to watch you writhe for more.

“Can’t quite get me, can you,” he comments, watching your legs struggle to come together enough to capture his arm.  You answer him with the same resigned hum, your eyes closed to any hope, and you let your limbs do what they can.

“Just one more thing, gorgeous.” You whine at the idea of anything but him, and he talks through it.  “Just one more.  You do this thing, it’s so hot, and you always stop me before I can see where it goes. Okay?”

Sam’s hand warms your breast, brushing down the slope and thumbing up the curve. He circles the heft of it, running his palm over the tip, and doing the same with the other.  He knows one is more sensitive than the other, so once they’re both woken and pebbled, he starts on the less responsive one, tripping his fingertips over the edge of the nipple, shifting the tip of it in small circles with the pad of his finger, tugging it so that his grip slips off.

It’s infuriating.  It’s minute.  It feels so minor, so undetectable, but there is a sure connection, some thready nerve that relays every brush, jostle and pinch right back to your clit and after long minutes of stimulating you like this, after Sam’s shifted his knees so he’s more comfortable, after you’ve opened your eyes to check he means to go on this long, he does it some more, and you start to breath deeper, moaning again.  And then you start to clench on that damned finger.  “That’s it, baby, I can feel you pulse with it.  You look so gorgeous.”

Sam shifts his attention to the other side, running the same maddening sequence of gentle, steady, deliciously movements, and watches your entire body undulate like it’s rolling in shallow surf.  More repressive teasing, then he pulls enough to lift your breast and make it long, rolls the nipple in his fingertips, and lets it drop back in place.  It’s got to look ridiculous, doing that to a breast, but you don’t care.  It makes you moan and arch and nudge your tits into his hands so he’ll play with your body and make you take it. Your brain starts chanting dirty thoughts, lines you’d have thrown away half an hour ago as tawdry, slut-show trash, but you’re singing now.   _Yes, make me, Sam, play with my tits, smack my clit, make me take it, tease me with your cock._

Lo and behold, you feel Sam move.  His finger disappears and hairy legs move against yours while he keeps a hand on a breast, kneading absently while he gets close and spreads his knees around the pillow beneath you.  Then you let out a loud moan, lift your chin and ask for more of the thickness you can feel pressing against your pussy, and you breathe long and deep for the time it takes for Sam to slide his cock into you.

It’s a shuddering breath, too, because the angle of the pillow pushes him upward.  You’re dying to buck and nudge and whine–  _Please, Sam, please, fuck me, slam into me_  –to get him to move.  Now, you’re just waiting to see what he’ll do to you.  Turns out, he means to do something to himself.

He takes a breast in each hand and draws his fingers down them, leading all fingertips to their peak, and starts it all over again.

“Ohhhhh Huck! Fam!”  You arch wildly, and Sam follows you, saying “Take it, Y/N.” He stops to tap your clit again until you rein it in, the clench on him getting a short grunt.

“Geezuh Chrif!” Your voice squeaks and your legs pull, shuddering around his hips.  But, with some effort, you ease off and quiet, and this feels like slipping into the last chapter.  It’s one long page of blank, wordless bliss.  You’re his, under his control, and it’s exquisite.  You float and wait for him to show you what’s next.

Sam does nothing but go back to fiddling with your nipples until he can feel your pussy gumming on his cock.

“Oooooh god, oh my god,” Sam groans and sucks on saliva.  “Oh, so hard for you already, baby, so hard.  Oh fuck.  _Fuck_.”  He’s teasing himself, too, trying to hold still and wring himself out on your pulsing heat, but his ass starts to tuck into it, and his fingers start to pinch more, pull and release, pull and release.  It’s as though his body can hear you, even if his brain thinks he’s denying indulgence.  He puts a fingertip to each bud and circles, almost pushes them inward, and watches you pant with it.  Your floor muscles tighten so clearly now, and he can tell you’re working it on purpose, as though he’s asking for it.

Sam has waited so long for this, the fantasy of you pliant and giving beneath him.  Ever since that first time when he’d had to confess his love for you in bondage and curses, and especially since you went limp in his arms at the thought of being punished.  He couldn’t separate the feelings of comfort, honour, pride and desire when he realised you wanted him to be in charge of you.  He’s been dying to trust himself to know you, and push you, and give that security right back.

He knows you love him, and he knows that you know he loves you, too.  So often he’s felt overwhelmed by it, and these past days of affection and indulgent adoration, it’s been there, below the surface, keeping his gazes afloat and his kisses and hugs aloft.  He means the words, but he only ever listens to your voice in the exchange.  But this moment, the way your bodies get to turn out everything they’ve learned, this gift-

“Goddamn.   _Fuck_ it-” Sam plants his fists either side of your ribs, drags his knees back and fucks you, holds his breath and thumps his hips into yours.

You’d have heard him groan, that relieved groan of him rolling his eyes closed, but you made some deep, punched out noise that’s the sound of someone turned inward.  Sam starts pumping his cock into you, shoving it back and forth across those nerves on every. Single. Beat. You jerk with it, each breath a climbing moan, warning him that it’s too good.  You can feel every thrill zing along the tested lines– your inner thighs, inside your arms, across your belly –where everything’s had to listen rather than yell.

“I love you, Y/N.”

You look at him, surprised at how flushed he is, how much movement there is in him.  _I love you too,_ you frown.

“I love you.” He reaches down, hooks his thumb into the top of your crease and pulls it taut.  It makes your swollen clit poke out the slit and he rubs a knuckle up and down.  You throw yourself back, shrieking at a sensation you know you’d normally stop, something so beyond the threshold of pleasure that you’d never persist to see where it goes.

But Sam keeps fucking into you, his voice climbing in that familiar way, breathier, more ragged than ever, and you hear it tip over into surprise, right as white relief seems to spill out from your pussy.  As though a dam has broken, all the weight of its water within you, you deflate and let the bliss flood right through you, along your bones and out your tips.

Sam’s rhythm stumbles into slow and emphatic, and he leans on the bed again, head soon hanging from between his shoulders while the rest of him sends all his energy into you.  For a long second, every muscle joins in, and your body pulls on the ropes.  Then he breaks a high moan, something like a curse word, and sags.  He jerks the pillow out from under you, tugs the gag free and lays himself down along your body to get his lips to yours.

It’s a valiant attempt, but breathing is important, too, so you press your lips and tongues together in a token gesture of ‘kissing’.

“I love you,” he gasps.

“I love you, too,” you puff.  “Babe… you okay?”

“Yeah.”  Sam leans his forehead on your cheek, pushes himself upward so he can tug the rope on your wrist and at least release it from the bedhead.  “I just… I need to hear myself say it.”

“You…” The question you want has too many words.  “You been deaf?”

“Huh.  No.”  More untying, slipping and shaky, then he reaches down to tug the cord and release each knee too. “No.”  He tips back onto his side, hooking a leg around yours to pull them along and help you roll with him.  With his great arm under your neck and a palm on your cheek he looks down at your wrung out face.  “I hear you say it an’… I say it back, ‘cause…  that’s how I feel. An’ I mean it, but….”

You’re blinking, realising just how wet you are around your groin, between your thighs, and how everything hums so loudly still. You feel like he’s the only thing holding you down.

Sam puffs there in front of you, rosy and shining and blinking long while all the good hormones have made him honest.  “I get overwhelmed if I think about it properly.  So, I don’t.  And I should.  I wanna hear myself…  tell you I love you.  And right now-”  Now, when he can kiss you so gently and print his heart on your lips.  “I feel like I’m livin’ a fantasy with you.  I love you.  I am in love with you.  And… I’m just really grateful.”

He swipes away the wet trails at your temples where your tears leaked free before, realising he doesn’t really think about how you look so much these days, just how he feels when he looks at you. Sam presses his lips to your again and speaks the words into you.  “I love you.”  He lets you feel his lips tremble.  “With everything.”

Your hands and chest tighten from the size of it.  You imagine your heart taking up more room because Sam’s is wrapped around it. You feel like you’ve cheated at life somehow, getting to have him.  “My everything loves you too, Sam…  I’m yours. And I don’t know where I’d be without you.” You kiss him some more, along his jaw and under his ear, turning his head upward so you can do nice things to him and bury yourself in the corner of his neck, have everything you can smell and see and hear just be Sam and his wonderful warmth.  “Thank you for saving me with your magic heart.  Again.”

Sam squeezes you against him, a big full-bodied smile, and arranges the blankets so you’re both covered enough.  You think about how you should probably not stay in bed too long in case Dean does get back…

“I don’t know how to tell you,” you say quietly.  “If you ever ask me to sort your laundry, I’m going to think you’re asking if I want to do this again.”

Sam answers with his eyes closed. “Hm…  Maybe I’ll just put one of my socks in your drawer and accuse you of really stuffing it up. Jump the gun.”

“Watch out, babe. You might break one of  _my_  rules.”

Sam’s chest bounces, jostling you enough to make you look up at him.  “Think it’s funny, do ya?  Think I don’t have enough rope for you?” You snake an arm up between you and point at his face.  “I paid plenty attention during those lessons, buddy-”

“Tell y’what.  If I ever get the urge, I’ll come find those stockings of yours and you can show me what you know.”  He opens one eye and frowns down to see what you think, smirking at your pokey little digit in his face.

“You bet your ass I will,” you promise.  “I’m wanna watch a man learn.”


End file.
